


Someone Like You

by congressmanmabel



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crossover Pairings, Dating, FiddleRick, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hispanic Rick, M/M, One Shot Collection, POV Third Person, Rare Pairings, Reunions, Riddleford, Romance, Some Spanish Dialogue, Swearing, Talking, Trans-Fiddleford, Trans-Rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congressmanmabel/pseuds/congressmanmabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Rick Sanchez.” He extends a friendly hand towards the southern stranger.</p>
<p>“Fiddleford McGucket.” He gladly shakes the outreached hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of FiddleRick one-shots starting from their first meetings to when Rick visits Fiddleford at his new 'shed'. (Post-GF Finale).
> 
> *This fic does not follow Rick C-137
> 
> *This piece is inspired by felixnostop's amazing art! Check out his work in the links below!  
> (http://felixnostop.tumblr.com/post/142247136137/these-looks-that-im-throwin-they-dont) and (http://felixnostop.tumblr.com/post/142286496087/open-loving-and-trusting)

I.

_ October, 1977 _

It’s a cool and windy Thursday night in the city of Palo Alto, California.  Rick Sanchez dons his spike-studded leather jacket, ripped jeans and combat boots. His punk suit of armor.

Strolling inside his go-to place for booze, the twenty-something Hispanic man plans on sitting at his usual barstool, shooting the shit with the bartender and filling his stomach with the necessary amount of liquor before band practice. Unfortunately, his designated stool was already taken by a peculiar-looking stranger. 

Normally Rick would be pissed off that some other guy is sitting on his unofficial red leather throne. However, the blue-haired man feels a wave of infatuation as he stares at the unfamiliar face with widened eyes. As the stranger turns to look over his left shoulder, Rick grabs a restaurant menu from one of the tables and shields his face from view. After calming down for a few moments, his dark brown eyes peers from atop the menu, narrowing his focus on the stranger before him.

The person who unintentionally stole Rick’s seat is an attractive young man with unique features. Wavy brown hair that barely reaches his shoulders, ocean blue eyes, and shining, pearly white teeth. Rick also notes the stranger’s physical flaws that most people would mock at; his tacky floral shirt, skinny physique, the old-lady glasses that rested on the bridge of his unusually long nose. However Rick finds these qualities kind of adorable. 

He continues his spying when Arturo, the bartender, approaches the mysterious man from behind the counter.

“Howdy! Could I have a Coke and Jack Daniels please!” The unknown man politely asks.

_ Holy fuck his accent is adorable! _ He muses to himself.  _ Not to mention his excellent taste in booze! Okay, that settles it. I have to talk to this guy! _

Rick is about to walk to the bar to finally meet this alluring stranger, but a group of drunk frat boys crowds around the poor male. 

“Well well well! It seems we have a country hick in our midst!” 

The goons erupt in cruel laughter and  proceed to mock his accent.

The poor brunette tries to pretend that they aren’t there, but it was in vain as the frat boys still taunted him.

Rick is furious at the bullying he is witnessing. He’s not going to allow these shitheads to make derogatory jokes at the stranger any longer. _ I’m gonna make those fuckers wish they hadn’t walked into this bar dammit! _

The punk flips the thick strands of turquoise hair away from his face and cracks his knuckles. He marches towards the bar with the intention of showing those idiot kids no mercy. 

“Howdy, I’m an inbred dumbass.” One of the drunks snickers.

“Funny you say that because the only dumbasses I see are you pricks.” 

Fiddleford and the frat boys turn to look at the young Hispanic male who angrily confronts the bullies.  “Y-you three fuckers think you’re hot shit, picking on someone because he just so happens to be different from you.”

“What are you trying to say, asshole?” One of the frat boys questions.

Rick releases a long sigh.  _ Typical dumb college boys.  _ “What I mean is,” he showcases his switchblade knife. “you stop bothering this poor guy or you’re gonna enter a world of pain.”  The three boys widen their eyes in fear, taking heed of the blue-haired man’s threat.  “Now why don’t you three do everyone in this fine establishment a favor and fuck off.”

_ Pendejos _ Rick seethes under his breath as the frat boys scoot their way around the intimidating punk and make their exit.  After the jerks leave the bar, Rick wordlessly seats himself on the stool next to the southern gentleman.

“Hey!” Rick greets a little too enthusiastically.  _ Shit. _ “I mean  _ *ahem* _ hey, how’s it goin’?” Rick attempts to uphold his image as the calm, cool and collected punk, his face appearing as disinterested as possible.

“Doin’ alright.” The brown-haired man answers in a friendly tone. “By the way, thanks for standin’ up for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” The Hispanic man shrugs. “Those jerkasses didn’t know how to take the hint that you didn’t want to be bothered with.” 

Just as Fiddleford is about to respond, Arturo interrupts the conversation. “Here’s your Coke and Jack.” He hands the alcoholic beverage to Fiddleford.

“Thank you very much sir.” The southerner says, giving the bartender a kind smile.

“Of course.” Arturo responds. He turns his head to discover his favorite patron. “¡Hola Rick! ¿cómo estás?” He beams joyfully at his regular customer. 

“Estoy bien.” Rick replies casually, nodding his head in acknowledgement.  

“Bueno mi amigo, ¿qué puedo hacer por ti?” Arturo asks.

“Escucha, necesito un whisky de soda por favor.”  After the bartender leaves to prepare the drink of choice, the blue-haired man speaks up again. “Rick Sanchez.” He extends a friendly hand towards the southern stranger.

“Fiddleford McGucket.” He gladly shakes the outreached hand. 

_ So far so good.  _ Rick thinks to himself.  _ Now I need to keep the conversation movin’.  _ “So...not to sound rude with making assumptions, but are you new around here? I-i-it’s just that I’ve never seen you at this bar before.”

Fiddleford chuckles lightly. “It’s alright. I actually just moved to Palo Alto a while ago after graduatin’ from college. As you probably saw earlier, I’m still gettin’ used to my surroundins’.” 

Rick’s facial expression slightly hardens upon the poor man’s reference to the incident that occurred earlier. He wants to help the guy out, but how?

As Arturo wordlessly passes him his drink, Rick figures out a way to alleviate the southern man’s woes.

“Normally I don’t give advice to strangers, but you seem like a nice enough guy so here it goes: you shouldn’t let any insults people spew out get the better of you.” Rick states, quickly gaining Fiddleford’s attention. “Some people have long sticks up their asses to accept that there’s all different types of people who exist in this world, believe me. And if they ever give you a hard time, then fuck whatever bullshit they have to say about you. They’re all too caught up in their own social prejudices to even function as decent human beings. Rise above man, stay focused on yourself.”

Fiddleford was moved by Rick’s heartfelt, though vulgarly delivered, words of wisdom. “Wow, it means a lot to hear that. Thank you Rick.”

“Sure thing muchacho.” Rick affirms, sipping his beverage. He looks at the clock and his eyes widen with worry, realizing that he’s running late.  _ Aw shit, I’m gonna be late for band practice! _ Rick drums his fingers on the table, figuring out what to do. When an idea pops in his mind, he decides to act on it. 

“Arturo, ¿Tienes un bolígrafo?” He asks. 

“Sí,sí” The bartender responded, grabbing the pen from his apron pocket and giving it to the punk. “aqui tienes.”

“Gracias mi amigo!” Rick uncaps the pen and begins to scribble on a spare napkin while speaks to the southerner. “Look Fiddleford, I-I hate to cut this short, but I have to get going.”

“Alright. But anyways, it was nice meeting you Rick.” Fiddleford says. 

“Catch you later.” Rick replies coolly, stepping down from the barstool as he made his exit. 

Fiddleford gazes at the enigmatic punk figure who walked with his hands in his pockets. As the thudding of Rick’s combat boots dissipates, the southerner picks up the napkin and reads the brief message it contained.

_ If you’re free tomorrow night, you should come to my band’s show. _

_ The Flesh Curtains, playing at Vodka A-Go-Go  _

_ 77 Smith Street, (right across from McDonald’s) _

_ Show starts at 7:00 PM, try to arrive by 6:30  _

_ Hope to see you there! _

_ Rick _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford attends a Flesh Curtains concert.

II. 

Fiddleford doesn’t know what to expect as he enters the musky concert hall. He’s dressed in a pair of worn out jeans and a faded Beatles T-shirt (the most ‘punk’ shirt in his entire wardrobe). With the judgmental eyes of the other concert-goers searing through him, the southerner believes he could not possibly feel more out of place. Even with his glasses off in an attempt to fit in he still feels like a fish out of water.

_ Okay Fiddleford, just relax and go with the flow _ . 

He remembers giving the same piece of advice to his college buddy Ford Pines whenever they dropped by at a house party over the weekends. Taking a deep breath, he ushers himself to get as close to the front as possible. 

Despite being slightly intimidated by the punk fans that surrounded him, Fiddleford finds that he is able to relax a bit. To his surprise, the other concert goers seem to be pretty laid-back and are not as scary as he expected them to be.  

Just as Fiddleford reaches near the front stage, he starts adjusting out of his comfort zone. Suddenly, the auditorium lights go out. The concert hall is engulfed in pitch blackness. Fiddleford tenses as he hears multiple screams and yells from the audience.  _ What did I get myself into? _

“ _ Get ready to freak the fuck out motha-fuckas!!!! _ ” 

The roaring bass-riff sets the mood for the angst-ridden fury that was soon to be unleashed. The ear-piercing screech of the band’s vocalist follows and the lights emerge, revealing the tenacious and flamboyant rock band. 

Fiddleford is able to spot Rick within seconds. The blue-haired rocker is now dressed a ripped blue tank-top that matched his hair, purple jeans and a skull belt buckle. He finds himself enamoured by the Hispanic man’s display of physical confidence and musical dexterity. Despite Fiddleford’s lack of knowledge in punk rock, the southerner possesses enough musical insight from many years playing banjo to distinguish Rick’s talents on bass guitar. The lanky man is mesmerized by the blue-haired man’s long fingers plucking the metal strings on his right hand while his left fingers seamlessly glide up and down the instrument’s neck.

When the song is finished, the concert-goers scream as their form of applause. Fiddleford looks up at Rick’s face, which glistens with sweat from his edgy performance. Fiddleford notices Rick staring into his eyes. The bold Hispanic man gives the southerner a smooth smile and a quick wink before starting the band’s second number. Fiddleford’s heart soars. 

The rest of the concert goes pretty well on Fiddleford’s part as he avoids any confrontation with the rowdier audience members and is focused on the band’s musicality. He even finds himself enjoying the songs despite punk rock not being his cup of tea. 

After the show ends, Fiddleford exits the concert hall to find the blue-hair man waiting for him in the lobby. He takes the opportunity to put his glasses back on before approaching Rick. 

“Hey muchacho!” Rick greeted, his tone emitting an aura of charisma. “So did you like the show or did you like the show?” 

“I loved it, actually.” Fiddleford answers, trying not to get flustered in front of the punk rocker. He  notes the bassist’s two faint torso scars that hid behind his tattered tank-top before speaking again. “So, how long have ya been playin’ bass for?” Fiddleford tries to contain the figurative butterflies fluttering in his stomach, excited to learn that there is another person just like him. 

“About five years now.” Rick replies before taking Fiddleford’s wrist. “Come on man, I-I-I gotta introduce you to the rest of the band!” 

Fiddleford allows himself to be dragged by the Hispanic man, waltzing down the hallway. The two eventually reach the green room, where they are greeted by a tall humanoid with bird-like features and a short, anthropomorphic cat creature. 

“Hey-ey Birdperson! Squanchy! I want you guys to meet Fiddleford McGucket, this really cool guy I met at the bar last night.” 

Fiddleford extends a friendly hand at the other two band members. “Hello there fellas!” 

“Greetings.” Birdperson says solemnly. 

“It’s nice to meet you man!” Squanchy replies. “Rick could not shut up about you during band practice last night.” 

“ _ Squanchyyy _ .” Rick whispers, gesturing to the cat creature that he drop the topic immediately.

“I gotta say, all three of you were really amazin’ on stage.” Fiddleford addresses.

“Why thank you.” Birdperson nods.

“It means a lot to have some feedback on our squanchin’ performance.” Squancy adds.

“So guys,” Rick intervenes. “Since we totally slayed everyone with our music, I say we celebrate tonight’s victory over at Denny’s!” Birdperson and Squanchy cheer in response.

“Fiddleford, w-would you care to join us?” He inquires, giving him a flirtatious smile.

The southerner blushes at Rick’s offer. “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is dedicated to the always amazing Felix (felixnostop.tumblr.com)


End file.
